Comedian Jack Whitehall pays tribute to the much-loved actor Richard
Griffiths – his godfather and a man he could always trust for sound advice.

From the day I was born, “Uncle Richard” as he was known to me, Uncle Monty and Uncle Vernon to the rest of the world, took an incredible interest in my development. He seemed intent on making sure I turned out to be a well-rounded and informed young man and clearly felt a great sense of responsibility – this might be in part because my other godfather was one of his close friends Nigel Havers. “I better take care of the boy’s moral compass,” Richard had told my Dad at my christening, looking over at Nigel chatting to some of my Mum’s friends. And look after it he did.

Where some godparents will give you a box of ornamental spoons at the christening then conveniently forget about your existence and totally shirk any duty (not mentioning any names, she knows who she is), Richard threw himself into the godfather role, as he did with every role he took on, with great gusto. It was my father, his agent for 25 years, who asked him to take the part: it was one he absolutely nailed.

No matter where he was working, home or abroad, he would always make a point of writing to me. These handwritten letters were penned in immaculate and distinctive italic writing, never less than seven or eight pages long, awash with jokey annotations and always beautifully illustrated. Richard had briefly been to art school, and I’m sure in another life he could have been a brilliant political cartoonist.

The most remarkable thing about this correspondence was that the letters were written for an adult reader rather than a child. The first one, following my christening, referred to the service, the “peculiar” vicar my parents had chosen, and how impressive the guest list was. It ended with a detailed paragraph about how good the wine had been and who’d drunk too much of it (namely my Dad).

Over the next few years, topics covered included the Doges of Venice, the behaviour of his wife Heather’s new cat and his own in-depth analysis of it, and his doubts as to whether the Labour Party’s election victory of 1997 was indeed “A New Dawn”, something I was fairly ambivalent about, being only eight at the time.

On my second birthday, Richard wrote to me about the necessity of having some financial backup in the form of a Running Away Fund. He had attempted to run away from home himself on several occasions but had never pulled it off, due to lack of funds. Every subsequent year Richard would send me a cheque on my birthday to be added to the fund which he said could be used as soon as I met the right woman and wanted to up sticks.

Throughout my life, Richard managed to engage me with topics suitable for the age I had reached and fire up my enthusiasm for them. When I was four it was Robin Hood; he gave me intimate details of Robin’s mode of dress, something that inspired me to want to wear nothing but green tights for the next six years. At five, it was the world of Horatio Hornblower, someone he loved and had an encyclopedic knowledge of. He even came to talk to the boys at my school about the subject. “Your godfather’s coming to talk about abook?” said one of my friends to me, sceptically.

An hour later they were sitting totally captivated by him, begging for an encore. I always felt sorry for the poor man that had to follow Richard on stage and give a rather dreary talk about the history of the steam engine. He even acted as my counsellor when things weren’t going so well. When I failed to impress my teachers with my acting prowess, he would encourage me to carry on regardless. “What do they know?” he said.

Going to seeRichard in thetheatrewas always a delight. Apart from the thrill of seeing an actor who has delivered some of my favourite performances on the stage (inThe History Boys, for example), there was the added excitement of going to see him afterwards. He’d always have a bottle of champagne in the fridge and even if the curtain had come down the performance would not be over as I and whoever else had been lucky enough to be invited backstage would be treated to our very own private performance. Anecdotes, stories about the theatre – even after an exhausting performance he was happy to entertain. He was the best story-teller I have ever met.

This is why I always loved Richard so much: as a child one appreciates the adults you meet who talk to you as if you are one of them, who don’t patronise or look down their nose at you. When you were with Richard you always felt you were his equal.

I have only been an actorfor a short time, but it is safe to say it’s a profession that attracts the odd ego. But you could not meet a more humble man than Richard. In his presence everyone was the same. I remember the first time I met Daniel Radcliffe at the premier of the first Harry Potter, in which Richard played revolting Vernon Dursley. It was early in Daniel’s career and he was quite shy and nervous and when I was introduced to him, I was pretty nervous too to be meeting Harry Potter. Richard instantly put us at ease: “Daniel, this is my godson Jack, now if you haven’t got a girlfriend you must meet Jack’s sister Molly. She’s beautiful.” Even on one of the biggest nights of his career he was able to diffuse any nerves with a bit of friendly matchmaking. Molly and Daniel, alas, never did meet.

I remember something my Dad said one evening after a particularly galling conversation with an actor whose ego had got way out of control. “If only they were all like Richard,” he said.

If only they were. I am so fortunate to have had this inspirational man in my life. How I will miss him.